


Everything Will Come Right (If You Only Believe)

by Who Shot AR (akerwis)



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Character of Color, F/M, Far Beyond the Stars, New York City, Pre-Canon, Writers, historical attitudes toward race, hopefully ever after, letter-writing, meet cute, missing the point of Star Trek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-29
Updated: 2010-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-14 07:39:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akerwis/pseuds/Who%20Shot%20AR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kay has no idea what she's getting into when she replies to a letter addressed to Mr. K.C. Hunter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything Will Come Right (If You Only Believe)

**Author's Note:**

> A few days ago, the DS9 episode Far Beyond The Stars captured my imagination far more thoroughly than I ever thought Star Trek could. If Star Trek was always about a rag-tag bunch of second-bests in science fiction, working out of an office together in 1950s Manhattan, I'd watch the shit out of Star Trek.
> 
> I'd mostly be watching for Kay and Julius' sake, though, and so this story is all about them.

_Dear Mr. Hunter_ it began, as the letters inevitably did. If Kay had a nickel for every time she received a note that began "Dear Mr. Hunter," she'd be--well, not _rich_ , since she didn't get all that many fan letters, but she'd certainly have enough to buy herself a Baby Ruth when she went to the movies.

 _I don't normally write these sorts of letters, of course, but I was so struck by your story 'The Dreamer's Voyage' that I felt I had to tell you. I've read your South Tompkins stories for years, but this one was absolutely inspiring..._

It went on in the usual way, though Kay couldn't help but smile at the various questions peppered through the letter--far more than people normally asked her about her stories. Where had she drawn the inspiration for Tompkins' name, what had brought her to writing in the first place, how had she thought of the design for his space ship? The reason for the inquisition became clear by the end of it: _I am a writer myself--or hope to be--but I am only a fledgling at this time. It's my goal to sell a story by the end of this year._

Kay had bills to go through and the washateria to visit, under threat of arriving at the office looking like an urchin off the street in what little clean clothes she had left, but they could wait half an hour. (If she put them off long enough, she'd be out late enough that she'd forget to eat, thereby saving herself money _and_ accomplishing all her goals.) She smiled at the flourished signature, _Julius Eaton_ \--the one handwritten touch on an otherwise typed page, and headed over to her typewriter.

 _Dear Mr. Eaton,_ she clacked out. _Your letter was a welcome surprise this evening. I'm glad to hear my weird little stories have been so well-received, at least by one reader..._

-

To her surprise, Mr. Eaton wrote back, and remarkably quickly. In the past, the vast majority of her correspondents had not done so, let alone within two weeks. The postmark, she noted this time, was in the city; the letter within was as bursting with questions as the last one, accompanied this time by discussion of his own opinions on fiction and a short synopsis of one of the stories he was trying to sell. It was something about grave robbery and to all accounts sounded wonderfully creepy.

They carried on back and forth for a month or two, each new letter something to look forward to when Kay was tired of typing out dictated correspondences or the adventures of Loriel of Lineret. Eaton proved to be not only an enthusiastic penpal, but an interesting one.

The letter that changed everything arrived--of all days--on April Fool's Day. _I've sold it,_ read the first line, _I've sold 'The Midnight Prowler.' My year's resolution complete, and we're not even halfway through the year._ That was very good news, but the request accompanying it wasn't. _I had noticed that we share a city and wondered if you'd meet me on April the fourth for dinner in celebration? Telephone me, and we can work out the details._

She stared at his phone number with a frown, resting her head against the knuckles of her hand. "What am I going to _do_?"

Claiming she had no interest in meeting Eaton would be just that--a claim, and an entirely false one. Kay had toyed with the thought of suggesting a meeting herself, though each time, the necessity of explaining herself had made her a chicken. It had seemed easier at the time not to mention that Eaton's _Dear Mr. Hunter_ s would be better addressed to a _Miss_ Hunter, and it was a better business practice in the long run...and giving up the charade now seemed both overdue and impossible.

This was what came of giving up her dreams of seeing 'Kay Hunter' on the covers of books, of setting her expectations just a little lower: tangled half-lies that seemed to come straight out of Hollywood comedies.

Ultimately, the promise of an evening of good conversation outweighed the possibility of ending their communication entirely. Having the very good luck (if it could be called that) of not possessing a telephone of her own, Kay dashed out a quick note and spent the next evening making her way to Eaton's part of town. It took two buses, the advice of several strangers on the street, and all her time for supper that night, but she found her way and managed to leave the scrap of paper with a doorman. The safety of a handwritten letter gave her a few more days' concealment, no small comfort--at least she wouldn't be stood up, even if their dinner plans only lasted long enough for Eaton to understand the truth of K.C. Hunter's identity.

From there, things were out of her hands entirely. She only wished she'd realized exactly how much nicer Eaton's neighbourhood was before suggesting the Times Square automat for dinner! As fond as she was of his letters, though, she couldn't justify too much finer a cuisine than that.

-

 _Meet me at the Times Square automat around seven-thirty,_ she'd written. _I'll be reading the latest edition of Incredible Tales. It's only too bad your story won't be in it until next month. -KC_

For all that her instructions seemed like enough to spot her at the time, she realized upon arriving at the automat that they'd be lucky to find each other before the night was over. While they'd be eating late enough to avoid a rush of people, there was never a time when Times Square wasn't bustling, and picking out a lone woman reading a magazine wouldn't be easy. Especially not when the fellow looking for her was expecting a man.

The best she could do at that point was to hold the new issue up to her face, making the cover as conspicuous as she could, and glance around over it for a likely man. Someone who looked like he was looking for someone, someone who looked like he could be a Julius Eaton. There were several men who fit the first of her criteria--a stout man in workman's clothes, a swarthy kid with a cigarette, a geezer holding a cane--but none of them seemed quite right.

Maybe he was running late. Maybe he hadn't known what qualified as "around" seven-thirty. Maybe, she thought dryly, his heart had quailed at the idea of meeting so illustrious an author as K.C. Hunter. In any case, she had been sitting there for fifteen minutes (twenty, if she counted the five minutes she'd sat there before seven-thirty), and her coffee and soup were growing cold. It had seemed rude to start eating before her companion had even arrived, but she'd spent twenty cents on this meal and wasn't about to watch it turn cold before her very eyes.

And then, just before she could resolve herself entirely to eating her meal, the dark-complected young man she'd noted earlier wandered over to her table. "Excuse me, miss, but I couldn't help but noticing your reading material." A dart of worry had pierced her at his approach and had not yet abated entirely; had he not said exactly those words, she would have kept her eyes upon her magazine and ignored him entirely. His speech had the cadence of an upper-class Englishman, though, and his clothing only added to the impression: he wore a well-tailored suit and carried his cigarette in a holder. "I expected to meet a man tonight reading the same magazine, but I haven't seen him. It's a long shot, but I don't suppose you know anything about that?"

With a strange sort of flutter in her stomach, Kay realized her assumptions about the man had been entirely wrong. Only so many people could possibly meeting friends holding copies of _Incredible Tales_ for dinner tonight, even in New York. For all that she was used to dealing with men, however, the ones she rubbed elbows with tended to be pasty, middle-aged fellows fond of fantastic stories and whiskey in equal measure. Not--well, not so young, nor so... _different_ in appearance. Finding her voice, she willed it not to sound surprised and failed utterly. "You're--you're Julius Eaton?"

He nodded, making no effort to put out a hand to shake. "Is Mr. Hunter unwell? I'd expected him nigh on half an hour ago."

"Unwell?" she asked, trying not to stare at him without likewise looking away entirely. And then it occurred to her that he still hadn't caught on, and she shook her head. "I'm afraid you're mistaken, Mr. Eaton. _I_ am K.C. Hunter."

He stopped short at this, peering at her with a curious sort of disbelief that she had grown rather used to; her sex was rarely anything but an unpleasant surprise to her colleagues and editors. "Then 'K.C.'...?" he asked, his voice trailing off.

"Kathryn Clara," she answered, shrugging. This, at least, was an answer she had down pat, thanks to several repetitions of it in the past few years. The rest of it came relatively easily, too, though she glanced down at her coffee as she spoke. "But you can call me Kay. Are you going to sit down?"

He took a moment to answer, and she felt her stomach sink. But just as she looked back up at him, she saw his bearing shift; it was slight, and had she been a moment slower, she would have missed it, but he was once more the urbane English gentleman who had asked her about Mr. Hunter. "I thought I might grab some dinner first."

She sighed at her behavior as Eaton walked towards the wall of glass doors, all holding different foods--what an idea _that_ would be in a story, she thought suddenly, but only one door, holding whatever food you wanted at the time. It was one to file away for a better time; for now, she wanted little more than to melt into the tile floor and die. That brief panic at the sight of him coming towards her, very decidedly towards _her_ , seemed so incongruous with the man she'd exchanged several letters with. Judged by his writing, he was a bright fellow with a taste for the weird. There was no reason to sit there like a little mouse without a thought in her head but fright, and she'd be damned if she did any more of that.

Kay proved as much, she hoped, by smiling at him when he came back over, carrying a cup of coffee, sandwich, and a slice of apple pie. "It's, er, nice to meet you."

"And you," he replied, and they fell into a silence that felt anything but comfortable to Kay.

A solid minute went by, or felt like it did, while they simply stared at each other, silent. Kay could feel her stomach growling, but eating suddenly seemed rude when he hadn't taken a single bite of his own food. Finally, she couldn't take it anymore and rolled her eyes. "All right, look. I only use my initials because the idea of someone like me writing science fiction is apparently stranger than all the aliens and spacemen in the stories. I'm a woman." She gestured vaguely in the air. "And you're--you're--"

"English," he supplied. His expression was mild enough, but she thought she saw something sharp in his eyes, daring her to disagree with him. Perhaps she was reading too much into one word and a glance, though--it wouldn't be the first time her imagination had run wild, leaving her holding on for dear life.

"--yes," she agreed, after a pause. There was no arguing with that accent, after all, and she couldn't possibly call him on it when she hadn't the faintest idea where _else_ he'd be from. "Neither of us are quite what the other expected. So now that we know what we _should_ expect, maybe we should start over."

He was quiet a moment or two, then nodded. Without a word, he stood up, walked out to the edge of the automat, where the haphazard scatterings of tables ended, and glanced around as though he had no idea where he was. Spotting her once more, he walked back over and tapped her copy of _Incredible Tales_ with one finger, a broad smile on his face. "You must be K.C. Hunter," Eaton said, extending his hand to her. "I'm Julius Eaton. It's a true pleasure to meet you."

She shook his hand, unable to keep a smile from her face (and only barely able to stifle a chuckle). "The pleasure's all mine, Mr. Eaton. Won't you sit down?"

Eaton looked down at the table, with a look of serious consideration. "Well, since it seems someone's already laid out a meal for me..." He nodded. "Only if you will call me Jules. Or Julius, of course--but all my friends call me Jules."

"All right." Kay smiled at him as he retook his seat across from her and unwrapped his sandwich from its wax paper wrapper. "And you can call me Kay."

**Author's Note:**

> You probably already know that in the show, Kay and Julius Eaton were based off C.L. Moore and Henry Kuttner, a husband-and-wife writing team who wrote some pretty badass stories together. Kuttner and Moore originally met when Kuttner (who was four years Moore's junior) sent Moore a fan letter, assuming from her initials that she was a man. If wikipedia is to be believed, they were pretty much adorable together, and so I am stealing from their actual lives quite liberally for this and any other stories I might write. The only major change* I've made that affects this story is adjusting the dates up ten years, making this 1946 instead of 1936.
> 
> *Did you know Kuttner died at the age of 42 of a heart attack? Not adorable, not happening here, damn it. :|
> 
> The title is lyrics from "The Gypsy," the number one song of 1946. Did you know I'm terrible at titles? Because I am.


End file.
